


The End.

by Petra1999



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Gen, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, M/M, No Character Death, POV First Person, POV Second Person, POV Will Graham, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra1999/pseuds/Petra1999
Summary: Will Graham is ready to end it all, but then he meets Hannibal Lecter and he is ready for someone else to end it all for him. [discontinued work! suicide tw!]





	The End.

**Author's Note:**

> **BIG SUICIDE TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE ENTIRE STORY!**

I park my car on the side of the road but leave the headlights on. The crescent moon doesn’t give a lot of light when it’s hiding behind the clouds as it is tonight. The sound of closing the car door is in stark contrast to how peaceful and quiet the place I’ve chosen seems to be. I drove into the countryside, far enough from home, far enough from all the people I know and all the people who know me, so I could be alone, and now I am. There’s no buildings anywhere, no cars driving down the narrow gravel road. There are some light forests here and there, framing a big uncut field of grass that caught my attention earlier. A surge of energy flows through my body as I realise: This is where I will spend the very last moments of my life.

After an appropriate hesitation I walk into the field. There’s a slight wind, and I’m glad I took my jacket with me even though it’s summer. Other than the jacket, which admittedly doesn’t look so nice, I tried to wear clothes which are simple yet elegant: Something that’s not expensive or beautiful enough for it to be a shame to be found here tomorrow (or maybe in a few days, who knows). A white button-up shirt under my grey jacket, black jeans, and the one pair of black shoes I own. I got a haircut a few days ago and shaved this morning. I look perfectly clean, reasonably dressed, and, as I walk into the field with a gun in my hand, somewhat mysterious. Probably.

I stop somewhere in the field that is far enough from the car to not be considered next to it, but close enough for the light to reach. Choosing a spot is easy, stamping down the long grass is a bit harder, and everything after that seems impossibly difficult, so I allow myself to stand in place for several minutes. First, I look around, making sure that there really isn’t anybody who could see me or intervene with my plans. Then I dare to close my eyes and listen to the soft sounds of nature that flow all around me. I can hear the leaves in the wind from the forest close by, I can hear myself breathing, and I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears – quick, even though it shouldn’t be. There’s nothing to be excited about, nothing to fear, and yet also nothing to be happy about. Nothing at all.

I find myself contemplating about life. I should have seen this coming, of course, but the pain of it still surprises me. Desperately, I try to define ‘life’, but I can’t. It’s infinitely many things, everything I have ever known, everything I have ever been aware of. Before I existed, I was nothing, and there was nothing. And after I die, it will be the same. In between, however, there was a lot: A lot of good things, a lot of okay things, a lot of boring things, a lot of sad things, a lot of painful things. Some fair, some unfair, none of it planned. Once I’m gone, everything that ever was, and everything that will ever be, will be gone as well, vanishing with me into the great nothingness. At least I hope so. I’m not entirely religious, not even partly to be honest. I don’t believe in heaven or hell, I believe that after death we become again what we were before we started to be. And I believe that to be nothing.

I still struggle with comprehending what _everything_ means. Everything means myself, this place, this moment. Everything I can see and hear and feel, everything above and below and beside me. I imagine a big dome around me, reaching up into the sky and stretching out into all directions. And even though it seems to be huge (in fact, it feels so big in my mind that it takes my breath away), I realise that it’s tiny compared to what _everything_ really is. So I imagine the walls of the dome to disappear, the sky melting into space, the present dipping into the past and the future. Everything that I know about the past, everything I don’t know about the future, all of it. My friends. My colleagues. Jack. Alana. My dogs, oh god, my dogs, who will miss me so much, I know this, I _know_. But for once, right now, tonight, I will allow myself to be selfish.

I’m aware, of course, that my dogs will not be the only ones missing me. I’m not stupid – I know that my death will have the least effect on myself and will have a greater impact on the people around me. And I also know that they wouldn’t let me do this. They would ask me to reconsider, to get help, to wait. And after tonight, they will ask me to undo it, to take it all back, as if I could, as if I wanted to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to undo anything. I made my plans. I wrote my notes. Tonight, right now and right here, is perfect. They will find me, I don’t know when, but soon enough. I can see it happening: Someone drives down the road, wondering why this car is parked there with seemingly nobody around. They will stop, get out of their car (just like I did: carefully, but with determination, with a goal), and they would find me here in the field, between the long blades of grass. The sight would not be pretty, and I hope with all my heart that whoever finds me doesn’t know me. But ultimately it doesn’t matter, because nothing will ever matter again, nothing except what I do in this very moment, tonight.

The gun is heavy in my hand, virtually pulling down to the ground. My knees feel weak as well, so I decide that I might as well sit on the ground to do it. I will look less proud, more afraid, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters. Nobody sees me. Nobody will ever see me again, not like this, not alive. _Nothing matters._ I repeat it like a mantra. _Nothing matters_ , everyone dies, everyone. And I will die today. And others will die soon. And somewhen, in a hundred years, or two-hundred years, nobody will remember me, or how I died. So I might as well.

I lower myself to the ground, kneeling, shifting my weight onto my heel bones. I straighten my back and raise my chin. I take a few deep breaths, trying to get a hold of myself. I need to be totally in control for what I’m about to do. Making some dumb mistake would destroy everything I’ve worked for the last few months (finishing every business, telling everyone I care about that I love them – subtly, so they don’t suspect anything). And, more importantly, I can think of nothing worse than waking up in some cold hospital room with people looking down on me, telling me that they’re glad that I was too dumb to finish it. But I’m a professional. I won’t make a mistake. I will angle the gun perfectly and hold it steady as I pull the trigger. I will die exactly as I plan to.

Upsettingly, my breathing technique doesn’t work. In fact, my hands start shaking, and I feel myself begin to panic. Suddenly, everything feels so incredibly real. I thought about this moment for as long as I can remember thinking about life and death. The decision isn’t recent, I always knew that my life would end this way, I just didn’t know when until I finally started planning it. I imagined myself taking my own life so many times in so many different ways that kneeling here in this field feels absolutely surreal. I know that my panic only delays the inevitable, so I try to think of something that will help me stay grounded. I see a million colours, I see Jack’s face (and his stupid hat), I see my house and my dogs, and I see myself kneeling in this field, and I realise that I should open my eyes to do it. _Live in the moment._ Die in the moment.

So I open my eyes. I blink once, twice, until I can make things out again. Looking into the distance makes me feel dizzy, so I look down, and with an embarrassing jolt I realise that, next to my own shadow, there is another, one belonging to a stranger. My senses go ballistic, and I spin around, raising the gun, pointing it to the tall silhouette standing somewhere between me and my car.

 _Fuck_ , I think. What am I doing? Why am I pointing a gun?

The person slowly walks closer, each step calculated to precision, an elegant stride, heading directly to me. For a moment I think that they'll simply won't stop for me and just walk over me like I'm some irrelevant, miniscule bug crawling on the ground. But I'm being stared at, I feel it, and at the last moment the person starts circling around me, coming to a halt two steps further away from the car than I am, and turns around to face me. And for the first time, I really see you.

Your facial structure is peculiar, your cheekbones are very defined, as are your lips. You don't smile, but you don't look displeased either. I don't know much about you at this point, you seem to have experience in hiding yourself from other people, but what I do know is that even though you look _incredibly_ threatening, you don't pose a threat to me. Not only because the worst thing you could do to me is take away my gun (which, for a moment, I consider to be a horrible possibility), but because if you wanted to hurt me you'd already have, instead of letting me rudely stare at and analyse you. Oh god, that's what I'm doing, isn't it? All while I could easily shoot you. I let a few more seconds pass and then decide to lower my gun, but I don't set it on the ground (because I'm still afraid of you taking it away from me). Meanwhile, I let my eyes travel down your figure, and notice your strange clothing. You seem to be wearing a classic black suit, but there's a plastic layer above it. My brain tries to comprehend why you would wear something like this, but no obvious reason comes to mind. You must take notice of my confusion, because you finally start to talk.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt you,” you say with dripping sarcasm. Your voice is deep and carries a foreign note - European, but not British (far from British). Your lips curl into a disturbing smile as you eye my gun. From where I am, you look gigantic and dreadful, but the shimmer of your clothing in the car’s headlights resembles an angel’s shine - so much so that it sends a shiver down my spine. _The devil hath power t' assume a pleasing shape._ I get the upsetting urge to laugh hysterically, but thankfully am too frozen to move.

You kneel in front of me, the mischievous grin slowly vanishing from your face, and reach out to stroke your thumb over my cheek. Involuntary, I lean into the touch and let my eyes shut. You linger for a moment, then pull back your hand, and as I open my eyes I realize that you’ve somehow taken my gun and are now holding it a safe distance away from me. I suppress the urge to let out a whimper, and instead focus my gaze on your expression. God, you’re strange, bizarre even. You look like a living, breathing work of art - one that, no doubt, is going to-

“Forgive me,” you interrupt my thoughts, “for taking this precaution.” Your eyes a searching for mine, but I can’t seem to focus my sight. The world and you are blurring in front of me, everything seems to float around me, but I am heavy, constrained to the ground. Panic surges through me - hot and cold bouts from my toes to the top of my head and back, simultaneously a conflagration and an unforgiving icy numbness - as I come to the realization that you have just changed (no, ruined) my plan, and with that the rest of my entire life, my fate. Suddenly, my timeline doesn’t stop here. The blackness of my future has turned into a colourful mismatch of yet unknown stills of my life, stretching far beyond tonight. In those images, there’s laughter - genuine or malicious, I don’t know. It catches me off-guard, an unexpected part of life that didn’t plan on reliving ever again. Surely, my future must be sorrow like my past and lacklustre like me.

A movement in front of me pulls be back into the moment. You’re standing up, offering me your hand as support. I gladly take it, and you pull me up onto my feet. There’s a dull pain in my knees, which I try to ignore. _Nothing matters_ , I hear echoing through my mind.

“Follow me, Mr…” you start. I keep my mouth shut. I probably wouldn’t even be able to produce any sound other than a bereft weep, and I don’t want to chance it. You’re seemingly untouched by my rudeness and simply press a flat hand against my lower back and push me into the direction of the car.

I let it happen. _Nothing matters_. Or maybe, it does.

 

# ***

 

"My name's Hannibal Lecter," you say. You’re driving, eyes fixated on the road.

 _Hannibal_. I roll the word over my tongue and turn it around in my mouth, tasting it. Such a strange name, yet so fitting. For a short moment, I wonder what people might call you as a nickname, but my thoughts are interrupted by you.

"And you are?"

"Will," I reply. I decide that that's enough for now. There's no need for you to know my last name anyways. I don't want you to call me Mr. Graham. A few minutes ago I didn’t know you even existed, but now I already feel closer to you than everybody else (even though I only just learned your name), and you not calling me by my first name would be a constant reminder that this feeling isn’t mutual (which I know it isn’t).

I see you glancing at me, probably waiting for me to continue, but I see no point in it, so I keep my mouth shut. Just as well, you probably think, because your attention seems to have already shifted back to the road. Good.

We both don't say anything for a while, but I grow somewhat curious about you, I must admit. And because I have no idea how long it might be until we reach our destination (your destination), I decide to at least get some use out of it by getting to know you.

"So, what were you doing out there?" I ask, because I genuinely want to know.

"I could ask you the same," is all you say, and I'm not prepared for it at the slightest. Up until now I assumed that you knew _exactly_ what I was doing out there, but maybe you really think you do and are just too polite to assume it in front of me. Then again, you're not polite enough to not mention it.

Instead of replying, I shrug, because I don't really know what to say _. 'Oh, I was just going to kill myself, you know?'_ How _do_ you expect me to say it? But I won’t say it, so it doesn't matter anyway.

For about an hour we drive on narrow roads through forests, fields, a small town, and then fields again. About half way through I stop recognizing the landscape, so instead of the car window I let my gaze fall on you, and I don't look away until you start talking again.

"You wanted to know what I was doing there," you offer.

I force myself to not look at your lips while you talk (which proves to be difficult, because I have never before in my life seen lips like yours), so instead start counting the knobs on my car's control panel. I wonder what kind of car you drive. It must be expensive, for sure. Or maybe it just _looks_ expensive, but isn't really, but I seem to already know you well enough that I can cross this off the list of possibilities. I don't realize that I don't really reply to what you said.

"I can tell you a reason that you would like to hear," you start, and I frown. "Or I could tell you the real reason. Choose one."

I didn't expect this, so I start counting the knobs again, but the numbers are all wrong because my mind is constructing several ways this conversation could go. Ultimately, after an embarrassingly long pause, I decide. "Tell me the truth."

I hope that this catches you off-guard (maybe because I would feel good about myself, or maybe because I want to see _some_ kind of emotion on your face for once), but you just keep on being you, with a blank face.

"Alright then." You clean your throat, and I can see your fingers wrapping around the steering wheel more tightly. "I was there because I had killed someone earlier," you say. "And then I stumbled upon you," you add before I can respond in any way.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "Okay."

The realization of what you said only comes then, and I know that it should scare me, make me want to jump out of the car, or maybe make me laugh because it's all just _one big joke,_ like everything else in my life (and my life as a whole). But it doesn't feel like a joke, and it doesn't feel horrifying either. Surprising, yes, but not frightening, not as sickening as it should be. It is even, I am honest with myself, a comforting thought: Sitting in my own car with a killer behind the steering wheel. A killer who just stopped me from taking my own life. Why? So _he_ (you) could take it instead? I think about this possibility, and come to the conclusion that I wouldn't mind, that you seem sane enough to do it quickly and professionally, just as I had intended. And for a moment I think that you might be the solution to my problem, my regret. If someone killed me, it wouldn't be my fault, it wouldn't have been me who did it, and my friends would maybe blame themselves less, or take less pity in me, just see it as an unfortunate (and somewhat terrible) accident or coincidence, maybe the work of one of those serial killers whose minds I borrow for the FBI, instead of the tragedy of a suicide. But then I remember the notes I have written, lying on my desk at home at this very moment, and my hope shatters into pieces. I consider asking you to dispose of them after killing me, but then I realise that I can't just go ahead and assume that you will kill me at all (even though any sane person would know that in this particular situation it would be best to assume the worst). Except it wouldn't be the worst for me. It wouldn't even be a bad outcome to this whole ordeal. I could coax you into it, I realise, assuming you would need additional motivation. I could tell you that I work with the FBI (true), or _for_ the FBI (arguably true), or even that I dedicate my whole life to finding people like you to put them behind bars (somewhat true, and yet incredibly false as well). Any of this would surely motivate you to hurt me. But I do wonder whether the fact that you know that I already wanted to kill _myself_ would influence your ultimate decision. You're a murderer, probably one that has killed many times before, as your general calmness in this whole situation undoubtedly shines light on, so ethics or laws don't matter to you. But maybe _people_ do, some at least. Are you the kind of person to help someone as desperate as me by doing the one thing that, for you, is usually reserved to acts of anger and violence, or do you have a deeply rooted goodness in your heart that would disallow you from doing so just this once?

An unnecessarily strong turn snaps me back into reality (no doubt you are waiting for a better answer than just _Okay_ but don’t want to admit it) and I decide to think about this 'Will he, won't he' at a later time if it doesn't become apparent until then. Meanwhile, it's probably best to get a better picture of your character. I glance at your hands, curious if they're still tight around the steering wheel, but they're not. Maybe that was just you assuming that I would try to grab it once I realize there’s a murderer in the car with me. Perhaps I surprised you by not doing anything of the sorts. I hope I did. My eyes flicker up towards your face again and study it. I wonder if I could make you squirm if I had enough energy to stare at you for longer. But I don't, so I look at my shoes instead, and think about what to say next.

"What would you have told me if I hadn’t had wanted the truth?" I ask.

"That I had a residence near the field and was simply having a walk in the moonlight," you say. "Or I would have told you the truth anyways, because I was quite sure that you don't fear reality. And it seems I was correct."

"Yes, it seems so." I wonder if that wins me points with you. But you probably despise me anyways, for trying to end my life. You seem like the kind of person that has never felt true helplessness. "At least other people's realities," I add, and you take the hint.

"I assumed that anxiety wasn't your reason to point a gun at your head," you say all matter-of-factly.

"No, I guess it wasn't." Instead, it was, it _is_ , the fact that I am absolutely and fully exhausted by life.

"Though I am sure that you did experience doubts when the time came."

"Yes." Of course I did.

"Do you still feel these doubts now?" you ask. I don't respond, which probably is an even clearer answer than a simple Yes. From the corner of my eyes, I can see you looking at me for a second. "I'm not going to kill you."

Ah, there it is. I feel antipathy bubbling up inside myself. Hatred for you, hatred for the world that played this trick on me, hatred for myself for being so disappointed. "Why are you taking me, then?"

You don't reply, and it feels like it's because you sense that I already know the answer to my own question. Torture is what comes to mind, but you seem like a problem-solver, not a madman. You'd torture for purpose, not for fun, and I suspect that I wouldn't offer the former (and neither the latter, I like to believe). So, if not torture, what then?

“What do you do in your free time, Mr. Lecter?” I ask, silently wishing that you insist on a first-name basis. Instead, you inform me about your correct title with a simple “Doctor”.

“Dr. Lecter. What kind of doctor?”

“My current career field is psychiatry.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the irony. “You’re taking me to your place to treat me.”

You don’t answer, and your face doesn’t reveal whether I guessed right or wrong. The silence is uncomfortable, so I change the subject. “So who was it that you killed?” I have the feeling that any conversation not involving your confession would ultimately seem very out-of-place for not addressing the elephant in the room.

You seem to think about it for a second, then answer: “Nobody of significance.”

“You’re wrong,” I say. “Everyone is significant.” I don’t know if I actually believe that, but it feels like it’s the right thing to say.

“They weren’t significant to me. Neither to you, so you do not need to care about them.”

“But I _do_ need to.” It’s true, someone has to be the good guy here and I’m more than happy to be it if you refuse to take the role.

“You care about a stranger’s life, but not your own,” you say. It’s not a question but an announcement, and it’s clear that it had the effect on me that you wished for, because I am taken aback and need a few seconds to collect myself.

“It’s easier to care about someone else than about yourself,” I defend myself, trying not to sound desperate. This time, I’m sure that I’m telling the truth.

“Some people would argue differently,” is all you say.

We now leave the main road we’ve been on for some time, turning into a smaller side road. The absence of streetlights makes you look lifeless, like a statue.

I hesitate before talking again. “Are you one of those people?”

You give a slight nod. “Naturally.”

“Naturally,” I repeat, and I can see your lips curling into a subtle smile, until you start talking again.

“It has always felt most natural to put my own desires before everyone else’s,” you explain.

“You’re selfish,” I conclude.

“Aren’t you?”

I look out of my window again. I know I’m selfish, at least I wanted to be until you stopped me. So, I realize, thanks to you I’m not. Not right now. But, as you don’t plan to kill me, I will be later. The thought reminds me of my gun, and I look over my shoulder to the back seats, where it’s lying, tauntingly out of reach. I hope that you won’t take it away from me for good, because then I had to buy a new one, which means human contact (outside of you, of course), which I hadn’t planned on ever having again.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking that I won’t kill you if I have to,” you say as you notice me looking at the gun. I turn back around and simply raise an eyebrow (because I couldn’t care less about your pointless threats), to which you respond: “You might want to reconsider which outcome of this situation you’re hoping for.” The implication hangs in the air, and for a moment I consider sulking, not talking to you anymore. But my curiosity gets the best of me so quickly that you probably didn’t even notice (it might be better that way, anyways).

“What outcomes are there?” I ask.

“If you threaten my life, I am forced to kill you. However, I’d like to have you for dinner.”

This genuinely surprises me. “So you _are_ taking me to your place?”

“To one of them, indeed.”

One of them? So my impression of you was correct, you really are a rich bastard. Why does that make me so angry? Maybe because it seems to confirm my theory that you could never possibly know what it is like to feel hopeless and helpless. But I don’t want to be ruder that I’ve already been, so I simply ask, “What’s for dinner?”

You smile. “Never ask. Spoils the surprise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed my story :)


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